The Epistle
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: You are the best friend, the only sincere friend, I have ever had. I am going to be back soon and I want you ("need" is more appropriate) to stop this. Stop mourning and please stop trying so desperately to forget. It is a fool's errand and you know it. You matter. Post-Reichenbach/Almost Reunion.
1. The Letter

**Hello! Another quick little one-shot. I was thinking about how Sherlock must feel during this whole wait. If we more or less know or can imagine what's with John and the fangirls are just dying of patience, or lack thereof, what is Sherlock thinking? **

**If you squint, you can see elements of Johnlock, but it is really just a close platonic friendship. **

**Sherlock writes a letter to John during his lengthy absence. It does not really matter if he ever mails it, really; what truly matters is the content. **

* * *

Dear John Watson,

I've never fully appreciated the presence of the people around me until I was forcibly removed from them by circumstance. It's a terrible trait because this has been a recurring theme in my life.

Until you.

I saw that you needed help which I could provide and I inexplicably felt almost obligated by some great and complex feeling to do so.

Your annoyingly slow typing is the result of your thinking over every word you write, the lack of ability to actually type is not the greatest factor. It matters.

Your concern for those with whom I may have been exceedingly sharp or blunt is proof that you are a much better person than I am.

The fact that you care about my well-being for no apparent reason, that you killed a man for a stranger's life when he was in danger, is the type of kindness that never fails to astound me.

The way that your eyes light up and you express your wonderment at my deductions most definitely tickles my ego, and I find it absolutely and completely childlike in the best way possible.

The way that you do not sleep at night and yet (hypocritically) scold me for my lack of repose is obnoxious, I admit, and yet there is something of the doctor in this frank concern.

You are the best friend, the only sincere friend, I have ever had. I am going to be back soon and I want you [_need _is more appropriate] to stop this. Stop mourning and please stop trying so desperately to forget. It is a fool's errand and you know it.

I will be back soon, John; I do not know if you realise how much I have missed your companionship, care, and just _you_. I will return, and all I need you to do in the meantime is keep yourself safe.

Though I fear I may be too late.

Your friend,

Sherlock Holmes

* * *

**Hello! Leave a review; they help me learn and they out a smile on my face :) Thanks for reading and I really hope you liked this snippet. If people get interested, I could write a sequel to this... Maybe. It's a possibility. **

**Until next time. **


	2. Brotherly Sentiment

**Hello! Some people expressed interest in a sequel, and here it is! I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who reviewed and everyone who read as well, you make me happy :) It is a bit long, but I didn't want to break it up into two chapters. **

**[Insert Disclaimer] Without further ado...**

* * *

Mycroft was not the type of person to acquiesce to the requests of others. He was also (most likely) not as cold as he was presumed to be; rather, he was very stoic and seemingly careless at times, but even he did things impulsively. Very, very rarely.

He had a trait that most people lack and which is often overlooked when assessing the overall personality of a given individual; he would usually never wait until someone asked for help, he would provide it on his own. Asking for help is hard for most people, and thus, knowing when others need help and providing it on his own (mapping out the possible consequences before doing so, of course) is quite impressive.

Mycroft also did not hate his brother. Contrary to popular belief, he and Sherlock got along rather well- most of their sniping at one another, though not exactly good-hearted, was never to be taken completely seriously.

And his brother usually never needed any help. On the other hand, nothing was usual about their current situation, and nothing was usual about Sherlock either, really.

Oh, how dreadfully easy it was to set up a letter being dropped off at a certain flat on a certain street in Westminster on the day John Watson would be visiting Mrs. Hudson.  
Sherlock was coming back to London within a very short time, and Mycroft had some hopes regarding John's intelligence, trusting him not to dispel any information that anyone but he and Mrs. Hudson ought not know.

Sitting at his desk, his trusty umbrella at his side, Mycroft monitored the CCTV picking up the courier dropping off a rather inconspicuous-looking letter at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

John did not live at Baker Street anymore; it had taken him a while, but he had gotten relatively used to the absence of his personal consulting detective.

Oh, the lies people tell themselves... John hated being without Sherlock.

He missed his best friend more than he cared to admit, and so much that there were only a couple of people who could even remotely relate to him.

John lived with a woman named Mary Morstan; she was kind, intelligent, and beautiful with piercing blue eyes and unruly hair which never failed to form a nimbus around her heart-shaped face. She was once of the most selfless people he had ever met, and she helped him when he had most needed it.

He visited Mrs. Hudson regularly, bringing with him some type of food, usually sweeties like biscuits and jam. They often spoke about nothings, but sometimes, they remembered. People need outlets, and they were each other's because one had lost a best friend, the other a son. They would laugh and occasionally, as much as John hated admitting it, still cry.

* * *

This day was like any other, quite cold and, in its typically London way, ever-changingly beautiful. John was wearing his favourite leather jacket, remembering something that Mary told him this morning and smiling at the pleasant words (for they must have been pleasant if he was smiling).

He turned the familiar corners of the city he knew as well as the back if his hand, and opened the door the weight of which had proven to be one of the most amazing pathways of his life. Inside, the endlessly encompassing warmth and coziness radiated throughout the entire place.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Mary made some type of cookies this morning and I thought that you would like them," said John, passing on a parcel of some sorts to the woman who hurried out of the kitchen with a smile on her face.

"Oh, thank you, dear- these smell delectable. Please tell Mary that I'd love to see her sometime again, but her job is always in the way. Wonderful girl. How are you, dearie?"

They moved into the kitchen where there already were things on the table and which smelled comfortably of tea, peppermint for Mrs. Hudson and chamomile for John. They sat down with some small chitchat along the way, when Mrs. Hudson excused herself For just a minute.

John assembled the cookies he had brought during her brief absence, thinking over the fact that he still hadn't gotten over his best friend. It is not as easy as everyone seems to think; within the first year, people pitied him, and within the second, he just learned to control the grief and he also met Mary. And now it was the third, and he still missed his detective. To be completely honest, he missed the excitement and the gratifying feeling he got at the end of every case; he missed falling asleep out of exhaustion and he missed having dreamless nights, for now his nightmares had returned, worse than ever. John hated being woken up by a frightened Mary in the middle of the night, or not sleeping altogether. He missed being yelled at by Sherlock for his typing or silly blog names, and John missed the moments of just laughter with his friend over an inside joke or for the sake of laughing.

"John, I've got something for you!" Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out as she snapped John back into the moment. She handed him an envelope which had _John Watson _written on it in calligraphic cursive. John dared not recognise the writing.

He and Mrs. Hudson sat at the small table in the kitchen, tea in hand and armed with biscuits.

John opened the letter and started reading the content.

His eyes widened in what looked like a mixture of fear and shock.

His hand went to his jaw, which had dropped as he kept rereading the same words over and over again in disbelief.

Still silent, he handed it over to Mrs. Hudson.

Once he looked up at her face, he could see that she was laughing with tears in her eyes.

"We knew it, didn't we John? Our Sherlock," said the old woman, reaching over to hold the hand of the man across from her, whose mouth curved into a distinctly Sherlockian smile as he finally started laughing along with her through his own tears.

* * *

"Are you satisfied?" asked Mycroft the tall man with a weary face and excessively tattered scarf standing next to him.

"How did you get your hands on it? Never mind, that is of little to no importance to me. Why, Mycroft?"

"I know you that you care, brother, even more so than you may realise. And I also know that he cares more than he may ever care to admit. You're going back home very soon, and I thought that a dramatic entrance may be in your taste," said the man with the umbrella in his hand.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"No need, Sherlock. Just next time that I need your help, please dress appropriately," said he, smirking and walking away with the umbrella twirling in the air and his brother left all alone in the cold and unfamiliar place, but with the trepidation of an over-excited child and the anticipation of something grand.

* * *

**This is it! I hope that this was up to your expectations and ideally exceeded them :) I love Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, I could not let the change to write them pass me by. Look at my attempt at humour in the end :P **

**Leave reviews if you can, they're quite appreciated. Thanks to all of those who had the patience to finish this! **

**Until next time. **


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